


Sweater Weather

by MashpotatoeQueen5



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: And like, Angst with a Happy Ending, Baby Dick Grayson, Bruce Wayne is Bad at Communicating, Bruce Wayne is Bad at Feelings, Bruce Wayne is Batman, Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, But he really loves his kids, Cold, Comfort, Comfort Reading, Dick Grayson Needs a Hug, Dick Grayson is Robin, Dick Grayson-centric, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Families of Choice, Family, Family Feels, Family Fluff, Father-Son Relationship, Fluff, Gen, Good Grandparent Alfred Pennyworth, Grief/Mourning, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Inspired by Fanart, Movie Night, Platonic Cuddling, Platonic Relationships, Rain, Sweaters, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Towels, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings, he's just supremely awkward, he's practically a child himself, twenty years old
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-20
Updated: 2020-10-20
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:26:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27123817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MashpotatoeQueen5/pseuds/MashpotatoeQueen5
Summary: Dick Grayson is eight, Bruce Wayne is trying, and there's a walk home in the rain.Bruce is looking at him. He looks like a constipated penguin trying to juggle, all stilted movements and abject confusion. Penguins don’t even know what juggling is: they would have no idea what they were doing. To be fair, Bruce probably doesn’t know what he's doing either.
Relationships: Dick Grayson & Bruce Wayne
Comments: 34
Kudos: 327
Collections: Dick & Bruce, everybody loves dick





	Sweater Weather

**Author's Note:**

  * For [succulents_and_fairy_lights](https://archiveofourown.org/users/succulents_and_fairy_lights/gifts).



> Happy Birthday succulents-and-fairy-lights! You deserve the world, chum <3
> 
> Inspired by their beautiful art of baby Dick Grayson:  
> https://succulents-and-fairy-lights.tumblr.com/post/630543789692452865/yes-thats-bruces-sweater-yes-bruce-and-alfred
> 
> It's been too long since I've written Baby Dick. This made me happy :)

This is, in no shape, way or form, Dick’s fault.

Really.

_Really._

Okay, so maybe they’re a little sopping wet. And maybe he shouldn’t have insisted on exploring Wayne Manor’s grounds when the sky was looking particularly vengeful and grey, all looming clouds and smoggy aura. And _maybe,_ when Bruce said, _do you think we should bring some umbrellas,_ Dick shouldn’t have tugged him out of the house yelling that _umbrellas are for the weak!_

Maybe.

Now, his knees are wet. And so is his t-shirt. And so are his shorts. And his hair. And the crooks of his elbows and the insides of his sandals and the creases between his fingers. If he checked his bellybutton, he’s pretty sure that there'd be a little puddle of water. 

It’s the kind of wet that happens when the ocean decides that today it wants to learn to fly and manages it, for a while, only to abruptly give up halfway through and promptly dump a bajillion gallons of liquid on any unfortunate wanderers.

Bruce, one such unfortunate wanderer, gives him a look. It’s a look that says, _this is your fault, you unwieldy monkey child._ Dick grins extra bright at him to prove his innocence and tries not to shiver. The rainstorm was fun, at first, but it’s been going strong for half an hour and they’re still half an hour more away from the manor, and he’s cold.

They walk. Bruce takes three steps for every seven of Dick’s. He hasn’t quite caught onto the concept of little legs yet, or the notion that maybe, just maybe, he should slow down a bit so that Dick can keep up without having to jog, but that’s okay. Worse comes to worse he’ll grab onto Bruce’s arm and hang there for a little bit, like an _actual_ little baby spider monkey or something. 

Bruce is strong. He can carry him. 

Raindrops, everywhere, falling down in sheets. Dick hums and jumps in puddles just for something to do, enjoying the way his sandals squeak and the muddy water splashes over. Bruce always waits for him, even though his pants get wet when he does it- or, well, more wet. His eyebrows do that little twitchy happy thing they do when he’s having a good time, so Dick figures he doesn’t mind the delay.

There are trees all around them, drooping with the force of the rain drops. He kinda wants to climb them, but Dad says wet bark is kinda dangerous, and-

And Dick’s not thinking about that. Nope. Nope. _Nope._ Dick is with Bruce and he’s having _fun_ even though he’s cold and it’s raining and Bruce is so so _quiet,_ all the time, and there’s a lump in his throat and wet in his eyes and-

Stupid feelings. Stupid rain. Stupid Bruce.

He slides his forearm against his eyes and it does the sum total of absolute nothing. Frowning, he tucks his hands under his armpits, where there is some modicum of warmth. Water keeps falling out of the sky and now Dick can’t even _enjoy it._

Bruce is looking at him. He looks like a constipated penguin trying to juggle, all stilted movements and abject confusion. Penguins don’t even know what juggling is: they would have no idea what they were doing. To be fair, Bruce probably doesn’t know what he’s doing either.

“Are you,” the man asks, words clipped and phrased almost like a statement, “Are you cold?”

Dick swallows and squeezes himself tighter. They were having fun today. The forest on the grounds was _massive_ and Dick had tried to swing like Tarzan on the low hanging branches and Bruce had caught him when one of them had snapped and there had been a pond with some bird on them and Bruce had named them, pointing out different water fowl and dropping facts like he was reading it out of an encyclopedia, but it was just his _head._

And now Dick is actually cold and wet and _sad_ and he kind of wants to cry and he kind of wants to kick something and it’s so, so stupid and unfair because today was supposed to be a _good day._

It’s still raining buckets. Dick shrugs and feels like a slug, all damp and goopy and gross. Suddenly, so fiercely and so strongly, there an _ache_ in his chest, and it’s hard to breathe around. Bruce is obviously trying to formulate what to do in response to the abrupt change in mood, eyebrows furrowing. They keep walking, and he only slips a little bit when the leaves underneath his feet decide that they’re actually professional ice dancers and start dancing away, taking him with them. 

A large calloused hand still reaches out to steady him, resting gently, tentatively on his shoulder, and nearly jerking away the moment it seems like Dick isn’t in any more danger.

 _You’re so bad at this,_ Dick wants to say, but he doesn’t, cause it will hurt Bruce’s feelings. Instead, he reaches out and grabs his guardian’s hand, squeezing as tight as possible. He ignores the way Bruce very purposely _doesn’t_ flinch, the movement redacted and jerky.

He just wants to be held. Just for a second. Even if it’s just his hand. The ache inside his chest makes him feel so unsteady. 

“How much farther?” he asks, even though he already knows. 

“Twenty minutes.”

Dick hums. Places one foot in front of the other. The rain keeps coming down in sheets. He wonders what Bruce would do if Dick let go and started yelling at the sky. 

Probably stare with very wide eyes, frozen statue Type Two: _acquired orphan is doing something incomprehensible, must study, must acquire explanation._

It’s usually funny to imagine how Bruce’s brain works, but right now it’s doing nothing for him, just making him feel tired and small, so he tugs at the man’s hand until he stops.

“I wanna ride on your back.”

A blink. Two. Slowly, carefully, Bruce lowers himself to the ground, glancing at him a few times as if to check whether or not he’s doing it right. Dick could have easily made it up by himself, but sometimes grownups have hang-ups about children flinging themselves into the air and canon-balling into their frames.

Grownups are weird.

He clambers onto Bruce's back and hikes his knees real high, slinging his arms around the man's neck. As soon as Dick is situated, Bruce stands up and starts walking again, his pace increasing, eating up the ground with steady strides.

Huh. Maybe Bruce _does_ understand the concept of little legs after all. The thought makes him kinda want to laugh. It makes him kinda want to cry.

A lotta things make Dick want to cry these days, though, so it's not all that surprising.

In the end, he settles on a wet snort, leaning his head down in the crook of his arm, cold nose buried in Bruce's neck. Their shirts are clinging together, and the rain's still pouring, and even with the entire sky sobbing it's still too quiet.

Dick closes his eyes and let's Bruce carry him back to the Manor.

Waking up is disorienting.

Bruce is jiggling him a little bit, standing in the foyer. If his mum could see them, she'd say they look like drowned rats, but Dick isn't thinking about his mum right now.

"Chum," Bruce is saying, "Chum, wake up, we're back."

He groans, doesn't let go. His teeth are chattering even though they're inside now. He wants a towel. He wants a fire. He wants to be home in the family's circus trailer, curled up under blankets that smell like spices and laundry detergent.

Dick keeps his eyes shut and tries to picture it. Out loud, he asks, "Where's Alfred?"

"He left a note: gone to the store. We've been left to fend for our own."

"Oh, so we're doomed, then."

A pause. Dick tenses, wondering if the joke was pushed too far, but then Bruce shifts under him, a tremor of a vibration, and he realizes that he's made the man laugh.

Huh.

_Huh._

Tentatively, tentatively, Dick speaks into the chink of Bruce's neck.

"I'll give us five minutes. Ten, if I'm being generous."

Another vibration, paired with a pleased-sounding exhale, whatever that means. Dick hides his own smile, feeling successful, that ache in his chest somehow lighter, somehow less, and then frowns when he realizes he's still wet and still cold.

"Bruce," he says, "Bruce, I want dry clothes."

"Shoes off," comes the response, and Dick kicks as his guardian's shins until the sandals flop to the ground with a sad sounding _smack._

The man seems like he wants Dick to get off so he can bend down and slide his own shoes off, but Dick doesn't _want_ to get down, so he tightens his grip and _clings_. Grunting, the man acquiesces, toeing the worn foot cages from his own feet and kicking them gently to the corner. 

Then, like bandits- like wet, shivering, muddy bandits- they tiptoe deeper into the manor. 

Bruce's bedroom comes up first, so they nip into his master bathroom, grabbing fluffy bath towels once they're there. Dick washes off the mud and then finds a pair of his pajamas hiding by the sink from a couple of nights ago, abandoned in a frenzied morning after a nightmare, and quickly changes into them, teeth chattering. 

It's so stupid, but he can't make himself go all the way to his own room for clean clothes. Bruce is just in the other room and it's still making him feel weird and high strung and jittery.

Stupid emotions.

By the time Bruce comes back in, carrying sweats and a turtleneck, Dick is pressing his back against the radiator and has dumped his wet clothes into the tub. The man frowns, thinking, then grabs a hairdryer from one of the cupboards.

"Do you know how to work one of these?"

He nods, sure that he can figure it out. 

Hairdryer in hand, Dick is shooed into the master bedroom, bathroom door gently shut behind him. With goosebumps on his skin and fingers feeling rubbery, he tucks himself into a corner by the dresser and pushes the metal prongs into the outlet, flipping the hairdryer on and immediately getting a blast of warm air.

This is good. This is _very_ good. Dick waves it onto his toes until wiggling them comes easy, and then he does his hair, and then he does his face, and then he does his arms, and then his fingers and then his toes again, having since gone cold-

He frowns. In the bathroom, the shower runs. He's got too much skin exposed for this to be efficient. 

There's a laundry hamper on the corner.

Hairdryer abandoned in an instant, Dick is halfway across the room before he can even think about it. The basket is mostly empty, mostly just work shirts and work out shirts, sweaty and stinky and _gross,_ but-

But there is something. It’s a sweater, a big blue sweater, big enough for Dick to tuck his entire body inside and have sweater paws to boot, and he’s never ever _seen_ it before but it is very soft and it’s _Bruce’s_ and he tugs it on without a second thought.

Which is the exact moment Bruce exits the bathroom.

Instinctively freezing, Dick’s shoulder hunch up to his ears. He probably- he probably should have asked first. Oops.

But instead of yelling, or telling him to take it off, or _anything,_ really, Bruce just slowly reaches into the pocket of his sweats and takes out his phone.

“Dick,” the man says, very calm and very quiet, “Would you mind if I take a video of you for Alfred?”

He blinks.

_Huh._

_Okay._

“Okaaaaay….”

A small sound as the recording starts, and Dick puts on his best smile and waves. Bruce does that constipated face thing he does when he’s trying to smile and suddenly things don’t feel so awful anymore.

So Dick kidnaps a pair of socks, and then he kidnaps Bruce’s hand, and he takes them both down to the den and insists on watching _Storks_ because it’s his favourite, and Bruce lets him because Dick is _his_ favourite.

The sweater is too big. And Bruce is so awkward. But Dick jams his cold toes underneath the warm cotton and manipulates the man’s arms so they’re wrapped around his shoulders. They don’t have hot chocolate, because what happened _last time_ Bruce had tried to make cocoa will be scarred in his memory forever, but it’s still nice.

It’s still _good._

There was a time Dick thought nothing would ever be good like this ever again. There was a time when, as soon as he thought about his life before, he’d fall into a rut of anger and sadness and wouldn’t be able to get out of it all day. There was a time when this house felt strange and unfamiliar and cold.

He still feels a little fragile, still feels a little cold, but…

But they’ve got time, still. The day isn’t over yet, and the ache is something he can carry without drowning in it.

On screen, the characters are making themselves into something sort of like family, different and strange and wondrous in all that it is, and besides him Bruce lets out his little soundless laugh. Outside, the rain pours down, but right here, right now, they’re warm and safe and dry.

Dick curls up into Bruce’s side, closes his eyes, and smiles.


End file.
